The Defeat of Grindelwald
by Merovech
Summary: A fic exploring the story behind Grindelwald, the Dark Wizard Dumbledore defeated in 1945, and possible historical coincidences involving Voldemort and realworld events.
1. Part One: The Castle Inn

**The Defeat of Grindelwald: Part One**

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**N.B: The village of Chiddingstone is real, as are all of its environs, buildings and landmarks as described in this fic. The only original character in this first part is Stefan Ankarsvärd. I don't believe in disclaimers; feel free to sue me if you think you're going to win copyright infringement for fanfiction. **

_The village of Chiddingstone, Kent County, England, May 1945_

The village of Chiddingstone was typically Kentish: small, surrounded by rolling fields of the most luscious green, and blessed (or perhaps cursed, depending on the opinion of the particular resident) with the kind of quiet, agrarian lifestyle that defined existence in the English countryside in the nineteen-forties and fifties. The high street was small, cobbled and ran past rows of terraced 16th and 17th century houses. Most were of Tudor period, with their flattened arches, ornately decorated doors and windows and a less ecclesiastical feel than their Gothic predecessors.

It was a hot summer day, and Chiddingstone seemed covered in a blanket of quiet, relaxed ruralism. The same air of blissful laziness covered much of England at that time, almost a month after the German surrender and two months after the death of Adolf Hitler in a war-ravaged Berlin bunker. The victory bunting still hung in the streets. The world seemed a different place back then, it has been said. Life was more quiet and localised - England was a country of villages, in which everyone seemed to know each other, and very rarely considered what went on beyond the fields on the horizon. Of course, the Second World War had taken some of that innocence away, and it would only last another decade or so before melting into the fierce modernism of the sixties.

In the Church Inn, on Chiddingstone's High Street, Albus Dumbledore held up his half-pint glass of beer to the light streaming through the window. He twirled it absently in his fingers, watching the light refract in new and colourful ways. At this time of day, two o'clock in the afternoon, it seemed to him a little early to be drinking, and the orangey-brown liquid tasted strange in his mouth, though he had always been a fan of muggle beer. It had not been entirely his choice, though. He had come here to meet someone, someone very important, and he doubted that such a rustic country pub as this served Coca-Cola or lemonade.

The inside of the Inn was small, with an uneven, bumpy white roof supported by thick, dark beams of wood. The walls around the massive brick fireplace were blackened with soot, and the beer taps on the counter gleamed in the poor, musty light. Pictures, paintings and various pieces of bric-a-brac hung along the walls, a testament to the five hundred or so years that this Inn had stood here. The oldest object was a seventeenth century Hussars sword, in a case above the fireplace. Apart from Dumbledore and one other elderly patron who seemed half-asleep in one corner, the Inn was empty.

Draining his glass, Albus turned sideways in his seat so he could face the door, and began to run his hand down his beard. It was still quite small at this point, perhaps just down to his chest, but had already turned almost completely white, like his hair; only a few tawny speckles remained around his cheeks and under his chin. He wore muggle clothing, of course, but it was with the same kind of eccentricity that Dumbledore applied to everything - all pinstripes, velvet and loud colours. It was as he placed his glass back on the table that the door to the pub opened, and the man he had been waiting for entered.

The man was tall, thin and had a look of well-concealed nervousness about him. His dark golden hair hung loosely around his gaunt face, and Dumbledore could see at once that he hadn't bathed in quite some time – the hair was darker than he had remembered, glinting with oil; and his face was covered in uneven stubble and smudges of dirt. He had the sort of frame that spoke of a once-powerful man gone to rot through worry and malnutrition. Casting his eyes warily around the room, he made his way over to Dumbledore.

"Albus," the man said simply in his thick Swedish accent, as he slid out a chair and sat down. One of his long, heavily ringed fingers picked absently at the other sleeve of his robe. He did not meet Dumbledore's eye.

"Stefan," Dumbledore replied. He gazed at the other man over his half-moon spectacles, considering him. "Did you see the bunting in the street? The war is over."

Stefan did not reply, instead picking a little harder at the loose material on the sleeve of his robe, his white-knuckled hands trembling almost imperceptibly.

"The man the muggles called Hitler is dead, he killed himself in April," Dumbledore went on, "You know that, of course. All Europe is awash with blood... but the war is over. Your master's plans have failed, Stefan."

Again, Stefan did not reply immediately. He stopped picking at his sleeve for a moment and glanced up, looking directly at Dumbledore's face for the first time. "You promised me a deal and I am here to make it, Albus," he said with more bravado than the timbre of his voice warranted, "I am not interested in your gloating. Now... deal." He wasn't able to hold his gaze long, though, and soon returned it to his sleeve. Dumbledore continued to watch him over the top of his glasses, expression not changing.

"Nor am I here to gloat, Stefan," he said calmly, "I just wish to impress upon you the enormity of what you have colluded in. Never have so many innocent lives been lost in such a short period of time, and for so very little." Dumbledore sighed, and took off his spectacles, polishing them with a purple handkerchief he produced from his pocket, "I have recently been made Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I can promise you that you will receive a fair trial, as I shall preside over it myself."

Stefan scoffed, and stood up, as though to walk away in disgust. Dumbledore simply went on polishing his spectacles, following the other man with his eyes. In the corner of the pub, the old man let out a little snore, now clearly asleep.

"Your colleagues will be apprehended also, of course - or perhaps worse. The Ministry has already authorised the Dementors to perform the Kiss on them - without trial. I doubt the rest shall receive a fair hearing, as most will be tried in France. The newly reconstituted French Ministry of Magic is very ill-disposed towards Grindelwald and his co-conspirators at the moment, as you can no doubt imagine."

Stefan fixed Dumbledore with a look of pure loathing, his scraggly-bearded chin jutting out in a kind of angry defiance. It worked from side to side though as he ground his teeth - he was obviously considering Dumbledore's words. With an almost inaudible growl of defeat, he rested one hand on the table, and leaned forward towards the old man. At this distance, Dumbledore could smell his breath, and it wasn't pleasant.

"And you actually think you're going to be alive to try me?" he whispered mockingly.

Dumbledore just gave a minute shrug, "We shall see about that, Stefan."

"I'll be taken unmolested from here into custody?" the oily-haired wizard spat out, "No Dementors? And the trial shall be prompt?"

Dumbledore nodded firmly, unreservedly. "Yes, on all counts. You know my position on those creatures - it is the same as it has always been. I have arranged for your unhindered, safe passage to the Ministry. You will wait there while I verify your information and do what has to be done - I will convene your trial on my return. Now... do you have a name for me?"

Stefan paused for just a few moments more. This was his moment of decision, and it showed on his face, which was taut and pale, jaw still working furiously. Then his lips curled back in a snarl, and he spat at Dumbledore. It landed on his cheek.

"You disgust me, you muggle-loving, egotistical piece of filth," his accent grew even thicker with anger, making it hard for Dumbledore to understand. His next words were crystal clear, though. "The place is ... Chiddingstone Castle."

Placing his glasses on the table, Dumbledore used the purple handkerchief instead to calmly clean the mess from his face. He seemed unperturbed. Eventually, however, he raised his eyebrows at Stefan, "Here, in this very village? Surprising, surprising...Very well. Thank you." He seemed to accept the words though, after a quick, nearly invisible glance towards the window.

He slid his spectacles back on his face, reached into one of his waistcoat pockets, and withdrew a small object in the shape of a pyramid, as Stefan looked on apprehensively, still leaning over the table. Dumbledore pressed the tip of the pyramid in, and it began to glow and hum, spinning slowly on its base in the palm of his hand. As the pyramid picked up speed, he tossed it into the air in the middle of the room, where it began to fall to the floor. Half a second before it hit the ground, however, it slowed and stopped in mid-air, spinning fast enough now to be a blur. All the time, Dark Wizard looked on, his talon-like nails digging into the hard oak of the table.

"Justus Pilliwickle, Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said sharply to the spinning blur of a pyramid. Immediately, it dropped to the ground, no longer spinning. The humming increased however to a steady droning that made Dumbledore's empty half-pint glass tremble on the heavy oak table. The glowing also intensified, and soon began to fill the room and bathe it in a dazzling light. It flickered for a few moments and suddenly there were two sharp cracks, one after another, from the midst of the glow. Within a few moments the light faded, and two men were stood in its place.

One was quite old, with tufts of white hair around a balding pate, and a lined and weather-worn face. He wore a monocle, and was bent in the back. He was dressed in turquoise wizarding robes, and held a wand in his hand. The other was younger, barely out of his teens, but looked intimidating. He had long, black hair to his shoulders and piercing dark eyes. His face had a long, disfiguring scar down one side of it, and his nose looked bumped, swollen and recently broken. His wand was also in his hand, already raised and pointed directly at Stefan. His expression was one of patient, predatory glee.

"Alastor, Justus, thank you for coming. Stefan, this is Justus Pilliwickle, he is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Dumbledore said, gesturing towards the older wizard, "And this is one of his brightest young Aurors, Alastor Moody. They will escort you to the Ministry."

"Albus," the older wizard said, bowing.

"Professor," Moody added, with his own bow.

Stefan looked from one of the newcomers to the other. His eyes soon rested on Moody, though, and the two considered each other, a look of the deepest hatred on both of their faces. Dumbledore knew they had never met. The young Auror took a few steps forward, completely unafraid even in the presence of Albus Dumbledore, the head of his own department, and one of the most wanted Dark Wizards in Europe.

"Ah, Stefan Ankarsvärd..." he whispered in a low, menacing, voice, "Oh yes, oh yes... You murdered those Australian nurses near Monte Cassino on the Gustav Line in January, didn't you? I remember now... quite brutal it was..." his eyes glinted threateningly, "Tell me, did you rape them as well? Only we couldn't tell from the bodies afterwards. In fact, we couldn't even tell who was who ..."

"Alastor, that will be quite enough," Dumbledore cut in sharply, glaring at the young man. Many wizards, much older, would have quailed under the look, but not Moody. He kept his wand pointed directly at Stefan, his face still a picture of hatred and loathing. He did, however, at least stop talking.

"I see thuggery still has a place in your department, Mr Pilliwickle," Stefan muttered, still returning Moody's gaze but seeming somewhat cowed, "You should learn to keep your attack dogs on a leash."

The elderly wizard snorted something under his breath, and raised his wand to point at Stefan.

"Stefan Ankarsvärd, you are under arrest on the prerogative of the Minister of Magic," Pilliwickle croaked in his unhealthy voice, "Your charges will be read to you upon arrival in custody. Will you surrender your wand peacefully, or will Alastor be forced to take it from you?"

At this, Moody edged a few paces forward, his face saying that he would like nothing better than to have to take the wand from Stefan. The Scandinavian returned his look once again, with a contemptuous curl of his upper lip.

"Take it. I shan't waste my time resisting the illegitimate arrest of a pair of blood traitors." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a long, thick wand and threw it in Moody's direction. The young Auror caught it easily, still grinning sadistically at the Dark Wizard.

Dumbledore was looking carefully at Moody, who was continuing his staring contest with Stefan. Outside, the summer sun still burned high and bright, and children ran squealing and shouting up and down the street. Inside the musty pub, the there was a momentary lull of silence, in which the snores of the still-sleeping old man in the corner could be heard.

"Albus, if I may ask, was this man the Secret Keeper, then? Did you get the name?" Pilliwickle asked, gesturing towards Stefan. "Is it the right one? Do we have him?"

Dumbledore nodded at Pilliwickle, "I have and it is. I must ask you though, Justus, if you would return him to the Ministry as soon as possible. I have guaranteed his safety, and I believe the Minister would be pleased to inform our continental allies of the arrest."

The old man nodded with a grim smile, and straightened the wand arm pointed at Ankarsvärd. With a swift incantation, ropes flew out of the end of his wand, wrapping themselves around the prisoner. In another instant, both he and Stefan disappeared, a single loud crack echoing through the room. The image of Stefan's defiant, angry look stayed imprinted on his mind's eye for a few more moments.

Albus Dumbledore let out a long sigh, and rested back into his chair. The pyramid which had acted as an Apparating point for the Aurors ceased completely its gentle humming, and began to float back towards Dumbledore; the tip had now raised itself again. The Professor reached forward and took it out of the air, returning it to his pocket, while Moody stuck his wand in his belt and sat down where Stefan had been.

The two men, one very old and one still quite young, yet still close friends, looked silently at each other. Dumbledore knew that Alastor Moody was one of the most gifted students Hogwarts had ever had when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as one of the most courageous and deeply moral. It didn't make what he had to ask any easier, though...

"Alastor, I think you know what I am going to ask of you. I can see you becoming one of the greatest Aurors the Ministry has ever produced, and I would know of no greater honour than to have you by my side when I face Grindelwald. There must be someone there to let the Ministry know, should I fall. Will you be my second?"

Dumbledore looked at the Auror, wondering if he had done the right thing by asking one so young to risk his life alongside him. But the answer to that was perfectly clear: Moody was no initiate and had already risked his life countless times - besides, Dumbledore could trust him completely, and there were few people he could say that about; he had, after all, schooled the man. Besides, Dumbledore _needed _him on this particular occasion. It seemed that Moody needed very little time to consider. He let out a grunt of assent.

"You're joking, Professor. I thought I'd have to follow you there myself, if you don't mind me saying," his voice, though young, was already a growl, made even more so by gruff pride, "I'd like nothing more than a shot at that murdering bloody bastard."

Dumbledore nodded at Moody, and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. "Very well, Alastor. Tomorrow. For now, we should prepare and sleep. I have two rooms booked upstairs."

_To be continued..._


	2. Part Two: Fear and Loathing

**The Defeat of Grindelwald: Part Two**

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**N.B: The village of Chiddingstone is real, as are all of its environs, buildings and landmarks as described in this fic; I have taken some small liberties in moving them around, however. I don't believe in disclaimers; feel free to sue me if you think you're going to win copyright infringement for fanfiction. **

_The village of Chiddingstone, Kent County, England, May 1945_

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of his dreams, Alastor Moody could smell bacon and eggs. It surprised him a little, as prior to this rather tempting intrusion he'd been having a nightmare. As usual though, the memory of the nightmare faded as soon as he woke, like water running through cupped hands. The impression that was left on him, that of a dark, nameless shadow on the edge of his mind, was the same as every time. With a grunt, his eyes flickered open, and he remembered where he was: the Church Inn on the high street of the tiny village of Chiddingstone, Kent.

The bed underneath him felt soft and luxurious, and Moody wondered if he'd slept in. That thought was enough to jolt him, and he sat upright, reaching out for his watch. As he did so, the memories of the previous day came flooding back. _Stefan Ankarsvärd had been Grindelwald's Secret-Keeper, _he remembered, _and Dumbledore asked me to come with him to… to… _For a few moments, he couldn't quite remember what it was that Dumbledore had asked of him. Then, with a much harder and nastier jolt than the previous one, he remembered: _Dumbledore asked me to come with him and be his second when he went for Grindelwald._

Of course, the nasty jolt was not because Moody did not want to go: he had meant what he'd said last night; if Dumbledore had not allowed him to come he would have done so anyway. The nasty jolt was because he was afraid. He did not mind admitting that to himself, though he would never tell anyone else. He was not ashamed of his fear either, because he knew better by now: fear kept you alive, for one, and besides, courage wasn't being fearless (which is just foolhardiness under another guise, Dumbledore had once told him), but accepting the fear and doing what must be done regardless.

Moody looked at his watch, and let out a sigh of relief. It was a quarter to eight; Dumbledore had said to be downstairs by eight. Judging by the smell of eggs and bacon that had woken him, the Professor was already downstairs tucking into his meal. He dragged himself to his feet, and had a quick look around the room. It was a small, rather sparsely decorated but homely affair that could have belonged to a quiet countryside Bread 'n' Breakfast anywhere in England. It was muggle-owned, of course, but Moody already had enough experience at barely twenty working amongst muggles for the strangeness of some things not to bother him. He walked over to the wardrobe and began to dress.

Looking at himself in the mirror (which, very unhelpfully he thought, refused to offer its advice on his choice of clothing like magical mirrors are wont to do), Moody considered his fear again. It was not without reason. Though their exact relationship hadn't been made clear until more recently, the Ministries of Magic throughout Europe had known since early 1937 of Grindelwald's relationship with the muggle Hitler. At first they had thought he'd been offering the dictator magical solutions to the problem of getting the German people onside, but Moody had known better: it doesn't take magic to convince an entire population to be accomplices to evil, just the ability to make them believe they're under attack and that you are their only hope for safety and honour.

The real relationship between the two had become clearer in February 1941, when a muggle, half-dead with fear and starvation, had escaped from a German base just outside the city of Stavanger, in Norway. He'd been witness to a secret meeting between Hitler's personal assistant, Rudolf Hess, and a man he'd claimed to have 'special powers' - such as the ability to disappear from one place and reappear at another instantly, and kill men with nothing more than a few odd words, the wave of a small stick and a flash of green light. The Ministry of Magic had swooped down on him, dozens of trained Hit Wizards in tow, within hours of the news reaching England.

Then they'd found out the truth: Grindelwald wasn't working for Hitler - quite the opposite, Hitler had in fact been working for Grindelwald, after a fashion. The escaped muggle, before they altered his memory, swore that Hess had been promising the strange man complete control over all European wizardry once the Nazi's had forced Britain into submission and Europe became theirs. After all, wizards are few in number, and no amount of magic can stand up to the might of division after division of tanks, infantry and fighter planes. In return, Grindelwald and his supporters would do all they could do facilitate the Nazi's supremacy.

Moody finished changing and considered for a moment what it would be like for the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to be torn to pieces; for the barrier between the muggle and magical worlds to once again be opened, with the Nazi's dominating all of Europe and lending authority to Grindelwald. He knew then that he had good reason to be afraid. Who knew what muggle contraptions of death were awaiting Dumbledore and himself at Chiddingstone Castle? With a growl of anger meant more to reassure himself than display any kind of real bravado, Moody opened the door and headed downstairs to join Dumbledore for breakfast.

Sitting at a table in the dining area of the Castle Inn, Albus Dumbledore drank his cup of tea slowly as he read the muggle newspaper in front of him over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. The remains of a Full English lay in front of him: bacon rinds, the white of an egg (he only liked the yoke), the crust of a piece of fried bread, and assorted smatterings of beans and bits of black pudding. He was just perusing an article about the intended trials of the captured Nazi high command when Alastor Moody walked in. The Professor placed his paper down and looked up at him with a smile. The boy – no, man now, Dumbledore reminded himself – gave one of his usual grunts of greeting and went to sit down opposite him.

"Here you are my dear!" someone immediately bellowed from the kitchen, and Dumbledore watched as Moody startled and fought the urge to stand up and start blasting his wand in the direction of the noise. A massive woman walked into the room with another plate of Full English in her hand. She wore a large apron (almost a curtain, Dumbledore had thought at first) and an expression of boundless energy and enthusiasm.

"There you are my love," she said as she placed the plate down in front of Moody, smiling broadly, "Albert here was telling me that you two are off for a walk in the countryside today, is that right? It's Alastor, isn't it?"

Moody shot a quick glance towards 'Albert,' then offered the smallest of smiles to the lady. "Yes, that's right," he grunted, "Just thought we'd take a stroll and see the Chiding Stone, have a bit of a look around, maybe head up to the moors."

The Chiding Stone was a large rock a mile or so outside the village. At various times thought to be a druidical altar and a Saxon land boundary, it had definitely been used in the Middle Ages as a place where the villagers would assemble to 'chide' wrongdoers. The village had taken its name from the stone, and it was the primary reason why the National Trust had decided in 1939 to take ownership of the entire place, making it a site of English heritage.

"Oh wonderful," the woman said as she bustled around the table, clearing up Dumbledore's breakfast and setting the cloth straight. She didn't sound like she'd actually heard Moody's reply. "You have a lovely time then, my dears." With that, she hurried back off to the kitchen, happily humming something under her breath.

Dumbledore looked at Moody, fixing him with one of his benevolent grins, "Well Alastor, how are you feeling this morning? We have a big day ahead of us! If what Mr Ankarsvärd said is true, then our man is hiding away in Chiddingstone Castle, about a mile and a half over that way, past the Chiding Stone." Dumbledore waved his teacup at the wall in a direction that may have been, but probably wasn't, that of the Stone.

Moody, who had been about to place a piece of bacon into his mouth, paused, with the fork in mid-air, "Well Professor, that's what I want to know: how, exactly, can you tell that Stefan wasn't lying? He's been running the show for Grindelwald over in the Scandinavian countries these past couple of years… Galloping gargoyles, he was the one who met Hess in Norway back in '41. He knows he won't get off lightly. And it's all a bit fishy if you ask me, him choosing to reveal Grindelwald's hiding place right next door to it."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, as though considering Moody's words. "That part puzzled me, too. It seemed an inordinate risk for him. Perhaps he thought that if he could not make a deal with me for his own safety, he could at least try and lure me to his master? Hedging his bets, perhaps?"

Moody growled, chewing some sausage fiercely "Wouldn't be surprised, spineless little weasel. What if he's not there at all, though? What if there are muggles up there, with them bloody steel wands?"

"The way the Fidelius Charm works, Alastor, is very specific – you must say the person's name and where it is they are hiding for the secret to be revealed. Stefan did both, and Chiddingstone Castle became visible again. Grindelwald is definitely there, that is beyond question. What else might be there… well, we shall have to see when we arrive. Come now, eat up, we shall leave shortly."

Moody gave the Professor a nod of sullen agreement, and imagining his fried tomato to be the head of Stefan Ankarsvärd, stabbed his fork into it fiercely.

A couple of hours later, Moody found himself walking down the long, empty road towards the Chiding Stone alongside Albus Dumbledore. He'd always enjoyed the peace and quiet of the countryside, but his reasonably new job as an Auror had meant a lot of time in London, especially considering the danger of the times. Now, as he walked down this road beside the Professor, he decided he hated it. The hot and sticky mid-morning summer air seemed to smother him; the smell of cut grass and slurry suffocated him; the massive, expansive clear blue sky above seemed to reinforce his feelings of absolute isolation and loneliness. He realised that on any other morning, all these things might have even put him in a good mood (if Alastor Moody could ever be said to be in a good mood), but now their worst characteristics seemed to be brought to the fore, and he began to feel a little sick.

"Not far now," Dumbledore said as he hummed to himself and meandered along. It seemed to Moody that the Professor didn't appear to be in the least anxious. He wasn't sure whether that should console him or worry him. It was true that Dumbledore was a great wizard: his work on the 12 uses of Dragon's Blood and on the Philosopher's Stone with Nicholas Flamel had brought him his great fame, but he'd shown many times since that he deserved it – because of him, more Dark Wizards had been brought to justice in the last few years than many skilled Aurors managed in a life time. He was also in line to become Headmaster of Hogwarts when old Armando Dippet passed on, which seemed to be any day now. That wasn't even to mention all the things Moody didn't know about, and he suspected that there was a lot: Dumbledore was at least a hundred years old already, and had the reputation of a man who did his best acts in modest privacy. All the same, however, Moody worried.

He worried mostly because he knew that Grindelwald was himself a very powerful wizard, and that he would likely have other powerful wizards with him. He also worried because of what the Dark Wizard might have at Chiddingstone Castle in the way of muggle weapons of death: he'd seen pictures and heard stories of massive explosions and flying airplanes with those steel wands the muggles called 'guns.' Magic was very helpful in all sorts of situations, but it couldn't do much for you if someone decided to create a massive crater where you happened to be standing. Lastly though, he worried because he didn't want to let Dumbledore down. He'd never let on how much it had meant to him that Dumbledore had asked him to be his second; that he would consider him, so young, worthy of being alongside him when he went for Grindelwald. So the last thing he wanted was to fail him. If Dumbledore was to fall, God forbid, Moody would be accused forever of not being _good enough _to prevent it, of _not doing his job._ He let out a long, uncomfortable sigh.

"Here we are, Alastor," Dumbledore said, interrupting his thoughts. The long, uneven track, surrounded on either side by dry stone walls, tapered off in two directions. The main track continued on further to another village in the distance, while another track branched off into a small forest of trees covering one side of the hill leading up to the moors. On the very brow of the hill, surrounded by trees, was Chiddingstone Castle. Moody was distinctly unimpressed: it struck him as being an arrogant thing to call something which was little more than a very large mansion. "Wands out, careful now," Dumbledore said in a hushed voice.

"Right you are, Professor," Moody replied, taking his own wand out. He glanced up at the 'castle' apprehensively, half expecting to hear the sound of 'guns' exploding, or whatever it was they did to inflict damage. Instead, its ornate windows just winked back at him in the sunlight, and a single crow flew over head, its call renting through the still silence. "Let's go," he said, sounding more assertive than he felt, and led the way along the little track through the trees, heading in the general direction of the Castle.

After a while, they came to a clearing, and Moody saw in its centre what must be the Chiding Stone. It was actually more impressive than he'd expected: it was a good ten or eleven feet high, split through the middle, and almost completely flat on top. He could see why it might have been used for an altar a thousand years ago. The clearing itself was completely empty apart from a small wooden sign in front of the Chiding Stone, giving a little history for the tourists. Moody felt a hand on his shoulder and before he could stop himself he gave a little jump, even though he knew instinctively it would be Dumbledore.

"Sorry Professor," he whispered, turning around. "This place just seems too quiet. I could be imagining it, but I get the feeling we're being watched."

"We most likely are," Dumbledore said, and Moody noticed he had stopped humming. The only sound now was that of the crow, still circling up above. "Now, Alastor, has come the time when I must ask you to fulfil your part. I ask that you stay here, hidden in the trees, and—"

He didn't get a chance to finish, as Moody cut him off.

"No way, Professor, no way," he hissed, "You asked me to be your second and that's what I am. You aren't going up there by yourself. I don't care how strong you think you are, or how weak you think I am, you don't know what's up there. I'm coming with you."

"Alastor," Dumbledore said firmly, his piercing eyes staring into Moody's, "It has nothing to do with strength or weakness, though you know full well that I don't consider you weak: that is why you are here. What I said yesterday about believing that you will become one of the finest Aurors the Ministry has ever produced – I meant it."

Moody felt pride swelling inside him once again, but didn't allow it to distract him from what he still saw as Dumbledore's foolish bravery. The Professor went on:

"You are many, many years younger than I, yet you have the courage to stand with me against Grindelwald. You might be afraid, but there are many wizards, much older and more accomplished than yourself, who would allow that fear to consume them. You haven't, Alastor, and that is why I have faith in you. But you must do as I say. You must stay here. It will become clear soon enough why I ask this. For now, I just ask that you trust me. Stay in the woods and await my signal."

Moody considered for a moment, grinding his teeth as he thought. "But Professor, what signal am I--"

This time, it was Dumbledore's turn to cut him off. "Just await my signal. You'll know when you see it. You'll know," he repeated, then, before Moody could raise any further objections, he turned on his heel and made his way across the clearing. As he disappeared into the woods on the other side, he had started humming again. Moody moved out of the clearing a little and slumped down against a tree, glaring murderously up at the crow which continued to pierce the silence up above.

_To be continued…_


	3. Part Three: Mere Coincidence?

**The Defeat of Grindelwald: Part Three**

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**N.B: The village of Chiddingstone is real, as are all of its environs, buildings and landmarks as described in this fic; I have taken some small liberties in moving them around, however. I don't believe in disclaimers; feel free to sue me if you think you're going to win copyright infringement for fanfiction. **

_The village of Chiddingstone, Kent County, England, May 1945_

It seemed to Moody that he had spent hours resting against the tree. The sun had already passed the midway point, according to his best guesses, and was now glaring down with the ferocity of the early afternoon. Sweat had sprung up on his brow, and he had to mop it continuously with a handkerchief from his pocket. All this time, there had been utter silence save for the blasted crow, which was still irritating him up in the sky. He rolled his wand between his fingers, staring hard at the mansion for any signs of activity. He fancied that he'd heard voices once or twice, and a muffled bang about a half an hour ago, but he wasn't sure, and Dumbledore had told him to stay put.

Resting against the tree trunk, Moody pursed his parched lips. He was getting thirsty now, what with the heat and nervousness. He didn't dare try to conjure a drink, however; firstly because he didn't want to tell anyone where he was, and secondly because he didn't want his attention to be distracted from Chiddingstone Castle. His tongue was just beginning to feel like a dry, cracked sausage in his mouth when he heard it. The sound of things whistling through the air; shouts; and the utterly unique sound of curses being cast. He leapt to his feet, wand in hand, and moved to the edge of the clearing.

Then he saw them. Four people, racing into the clearing. The first one was someone that Moody had never seen before, a tall, blond-haired, painfully pasty-looking man dressed in black robes. He had his wand out in front of him, and was uttering curse after hex after jinx, flashes of multi-coloured light peeling off into the woods. From the direction of his aim came Albus Dumbledore, and Moody was so shocked that his breath left him entirely. Dumbledore was moving with the agility of a teenage Quidditch player, sprinting into the clearing after the first wizard. His long, white hair flew behind him, and his eyes seemed to burn like pools of molten lava in his face. The wizard seemed to be emanating a power so strong that the clearing thrummed with it. Each curse that the first wizard threw at him he blocked easily, spinning now and again to block more coming from behind. All around him, rocks were lifting themselves off the ground and pelting the Dark Wizard. The trees shook though there was no wind. It seemed like the woods themselves were fighting on Dumbledore's side.

Moody let out a battle cry and made to charge into the centre of the clearing, but felt himself propelled back towards the trees by an invisible force. For a split second, it seemed that time slowed down and he locked eyes with Dumbledore. _Stay in the woods and await my signal, _the Professor's words echoed through his head. He couldn't tell if the memory of them had some how sprung into his head, or if Dumbledore had contrived to put them there. All the same, he took a step backwards into the woods and watched as Dumbledore continued to duel with the tall, blond man. Not a moment too soon, either, as in that instant two more people came storming into the clearing from behind Dumbledore.

One was a witch who appeared to be somewhere in her late fifties or sixties – though with magical folk it was always hard to judge – with brown hair made up into a severe bun on top of her head. Her face was contorted into murderous fury, and she screeched curses down upon Dumbledore as she added the power of her own wand to that of the blond man. Lastly, another wizard, tall and thin like the first one, came into the clearing. Moody realised with a shock so strong he felt it physically that the newcomer was about the same age as him, probably even a year or two younger. His age didn't seem to be a handicap on his abilities though, as he threw a Killing Curse at Dumbledore. One of the larger rocks pelting around Dumbledore's head flew in the way of it, shattering into fine dust. Indeed, this boy seemed to be tying up most of the Professor's attention.

The three Dark Wizards formed a sort of triangle around Dumbledore, and for a moment, it looked to Moody as though they might beat him down. It didn't seem possible that one man could possibly deflect all those spells and hope to actually keep enough energy to fight back. But slowly, Moody realised, he was beginning to. Finally, after blocking one spell from the boy, Dumbledore took what seemed to be an impossible leap in the air, powered by magic. The Avada Kedavra spell, cast by the witch, flashed underneath his flowing robes as the Professor seemed to suspend himself in the air for a moment. Moody felt the pit of his stomach turn to ice as a rushing sound filled the clearing. The spell had caught the blond man, the first one into the clearing. He dropped to the ground, as dead as the dirt around him. Dumbledore landed easily on the ground and turned to the witch, firing a Stunning spell in her direction. Moody didn't know whether it was because the Professor had one less person attacking him, but once the blond wizard was gone, the other two also seemed weakened. It was one less person taking up Dumbledore's attentions, Moody realised. With a strangled howl, the witch crumpled to the floor, Stunned.

Moody had thought at first that the blond man was Grindelwald, when he came rushing into the clearing. He'd noticed, though, when the man had died, that he seemed too young, and that it would be unlikely that Grindelwald would be the first to fall. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and his stomach fell to his knees. That crow. It had been circling around the entire time Moody had been waiting in the clearing, and now it was swooping down towards the circle, screeching. _Why couldn't I tell, _he cursed himself, _crows don't circle the same spot for three hours! _Hoping fervently that this time it was his moment, he dashed into the clearing.

The crow swept down towards the Chiding Stone, and began to grow larger before Moody's eyes, becoming lump and round in places. A split second later, the crow had turned into a massive man who landed with an earth-shattering thud on top of the Stone. He was one of the largest men Moody had ever seen. Huge and powerfully built with long black hair, he seemed like some massive predator that had chosen the clearing as its den. He let out a snarl of fury that seemed to shake the ground. With the arrival of the enormous man, the battle between Dumbledore and the boy faltered; just as well for the boy, Moody thought, as it looked as though Dumbledore was about to defeat him. Taking advantage of the brief lull in combat the boy Disapparated with a crack that resounded through the clearing, but not before his eyes could lock with Moody's: the Auror felt the glance as if it were a physical slap to the face.

Now just the huge man on the Chiding Stone remained, glaring at Dumbledore, wand raised. Moody had his own wand on the man's back, but the Dark Wizard seemed to be aware of that, as he shifted around the Stone to allow himself the ability to defend both ways. The man's eyes were only on the Professor's, however, and the two seemed to be considering one another. Moody didn't know whether to attack or to wait; it seemed that the two were about to speak, so he held back.

"You don't look much older than when I last saw you, Albus," the huge man on the Stone boomed at Dumbledore in some kind of Central European accent, "The years have been kind to you."

The Professor, his eyes still burning with the fire that they had contained when he'd first dashed into the ring, shrugged at the other in response.

"It comes as a surprise to me too, Grindelwald, let me assure you," he whispered, "You would have thought the toll of cleaning up your mess would show in the lines on my face, wouldn't you? Do you know how many dead there are, Ludwig? Muggles included?"

"Why would you include muggles?" Grindelwald retorted, and Moody could tell that though the two men obviously knew each other, this reunion would not be lasting very long for one of them.

"Ludwig, some of us are born with a talent for music, others with a gift for painting, some with an eye for sculpture," Dumbledore went on, "Did it never strike you that magic is an ability like any other? That we should be proud of our talent, but respectful of those that do not have it?"

Grindelwald looked at Dumbledore with a piteous smirk. "No, Albus, it seems to me that we have these powers because we are their natural superiors. We are the elite, Professor, the chosen. The Germans have their _juden_, and we have our muggles. They are inferior! Just like those wizards who choose to spit upon their heritage and breeding. The boy realised it… why don't you?"

Moody didn't know what he was talking about. What boy? Surely he didn't mean the boy that was just here now? As he watched, Dumbledore's gaze hardened and grew more determined.

"You made a mistake, bringing one so young into this," the Professor murmured, shaking his head, "Far too young."

"Don't blame me for your own mistakes, Albus," Grindelwald hissed, and Moody could tell straight away that he'd said one thing too far.

"STUPEFY!"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Both of the wizards cast their spells, and the beams of light met and exploded in the air, making the clearing glow even though they were in the mid-afternoon sun. Both of them cast again, and again the light exploded throughout the clearing. Moody wondered only for the briefest moment what to do, before shouting his own incantation.

"DIFFINDO!"

Moody watched his Severing Charm fly towards Grindelwald's wand arm. At the last second, the Dark Wizard jerked out of the way, wand spinning between his fingers. The spell deflected straight back towards Moody, and before the Auror had time to do anything about it, had cut straight through his leg just below the knee. He let out a howl of pain that rent the clearing, and collapsed.

Stars were spinning in Moody's head and he immediately felt sick. His wand was gone out of his hand – he didn't know where – and he felt a wave of icy cold wash over him despite the heat of the sun. _You bastard_, he thought, _YOU BASTARD. _He lay on his side in the grass, unable to tell if the screaming sound was coming from his own mouth or from the duel that was still taking place. He forced an eye open, to see the two other wizards battling furiously, and realised two things: first, that he was groping for his wand, and second, that he had never been so angry in his entire life. He felt that his entire body was vibrating with rage, and it soothed him. Seizing his wand, he dragged himself onto his side, trying not to watch the blood practically pouring out of the stump below his kneecap.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald were two blurs, performing curse and counter-curse, attempting to disarm, feinting and hurling attack after attack at each another. Dumbledore's voice echoed through his head again, s_tay in the woods and await my signal,_ and Moody thought _what an utterly useless thing to remember now_. He cursed his pain-addled brain. Then something struck him. Perhaps it wasn't. He'd felt it was the right thing to dash in when Grindelwald arrived, but had Dumbledore actually made a signal? No, he told himself, he hadn't. Anger still surging through him, he looked at Dumbledore. He was just stood there, arm upraised.

Grindelwald seemed to be so shocked by the upraised wand – assuming it a sign of surrender - that he didn't attack at once. _Stay in the woods and await my signal, _the words pounded through his head. _This is it, _he thought, _this is the signal. _With an almighty effort, Moody pushed himself onto his knees, trying not to cry out in pain at the pressure on his stump. Without knowing why, he raised his wand high in the air as well. Almost immediately, all background sound seemed to stop. The sound of his own breathing, his own groans of pain disappeared; the trees still moved in the breeze, but their leaves didn't make a noise; Moody finally understood what it meant to have a deafening silence.

Suddenly, loud words echoed through the clearing. Strange words in a language he'd never heard before. They were somehow soothing and intimidating at the same time, as if something of awful majesty had crept into his soul. His eyes were fixed on Grindelwald's face, which had turned completely white, his wand hanging at his side. Then he realised that Grindelwald's eyes were fixed back on _him, _not Dumbledore, but _him. _The next realisation nearly knocked him out: the words were his as well! Those strange, terrible words were coming out of _his own mouth_.

Before this had time to sink in, yellow lightning erupted from the tip of his wand. It arced up into the sky, thick and crackling with energy, before going to land on the tip of Dumbledore's. Once the two were connected, the words ceased. The middle point of the arc, which rested just above Grindelwald and the Chiding Stone, erupted with another burst of lightning that slammed into Grindelwald and the rock. Moody couldn't believe his eyes. Grindelwald immediately collapsed upon the rock, which began to glow and hum. He tore his gaze from the Dark Wizard to Dumbledore, whose eyes were closed. The man seemed to be in the deepest kind of trance, his mouth moving so fast that it looked like a blur. Then the crackling stopped and the lightning disappeared. Slowly, sound began to return to the world.

Moody stared at Grindelwald's prostrate form, and then to Dumbledore, who had just opened his eyes and was staring at the Chiding Stone intently.

"Professor--" Moody began to croak.

"Shh, Alastor. Look at the Stone."

Moody turned his gaze to the rock. By now all the energy had left his body, and he was sitting back. He knew that his face must be very pale, and that he had lost a lot of blood. But all thoughts of his own wellbeing were removed from his mind when the strangest thing began to happen upon the Chiding Stone. Grindelwald, who had started to stir, let out a scream of abject horror as a pair of ethereal hands reached out of the rock on either side of him, closing around his midsection. They arms seemed to be huge and strong, covered with animal furs, but Moody could tell by the way light passed through them that they weren't corporeal. That didn't seem to stop them being able to touch things, though, as the arms tightened around Grindelwald and slowly started to drag him down into the Chiding Stone.

It took five minutes in all before the Dark Wizard disappeared completely into the rock. Moody would have looked away from the horror, but it wasn't the sight that was so terrible. It was the sound of Grindelwald – the most feared Dark Wizard in all of Europe, indeed, all the world – shrieking and sobbing for mercy. This was a man who had killed hundreds in his own time, and whose deeds had helped to facilitate the deaths of millions. But he was screaming and crying as though a baby, as the huge, ghostly hands finally dragged him into the rock. His head was the last part to disappear, still babbling unintelligibly in a mixture of different languages and sobs. When it was done, Moody, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach, collapsed on his side. Everything turned to black.

When he finally came back around, Moody didn't feel as though he'd slept at all. His entire body ached, and he felt exhausted. He realised he was lying in a bed, though, and that comforted him. If he'd awoken to find himself on something cold and hard, he would have presumed attendance of a mortuary and become rather upset. He forced his eyelids open and tried to shake some of the dreamy delirium out of his head. As he did so, the image of Albus Dumbledore hove into view; the Professor was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at him over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

"Ah, Alastor," he said, smiling kindly.

"Professor Dumbledore," Moody grunted weakly, and tried to sit up a little to look around. He noticed that this was the room of the Bed 'n' Breakfast he'd stayed in the previous night. As he did so, his eye caught sight of his leg. His stomach somersaulted. "Oh. I suppose that wasn't one of my dreams, then. In that case, I don't suppose the rest of it was, either?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by 'the rest of it,'" Dumbledore said. "If you mean did we manage to find Grindelwald and defeat him? Then yes. Unfortunately, you also lost your leg."

"Defeat, professor? If I remember this rightly – and I'm not saying that I do, mind – he got dragged into a rock by some … well, something," Moody said, in between fighting to clear his throat of phlegm that tasted suspiciously of blood, "It looked to me like he might be dead."

"Ah, no. Ludwig Grindelwald is not dead. Not quite. You see, the Chiding Stone is not just a place of historical interest. Once upon a time, many hundreds of years ago, it was used as a druidical altar, as the muggles have long suspected," Dumbledore explained, removing his half-moon spectacles from his face and producing a purple handkerchief from his pocket with which to clean them, "It would appear that the particular Druid who used it trapped himself inside. That's why the Chiding Stone has achieved such a reputation for itself over the years as a Saxon land boundary, a place to pass punishment and, of course, a druidical altar."

Moody nodded calmly, but he realised he must have been staring at Dumbledore as if he was mad because the old Professor started to chuckle.

"Yes, quite a shock, I suppose. I should have told you earlier – only I wasn't sure if it would come in useful, or if it could be used against us. I didn't know if Grindelwald knew about it, you see, or whether it was just coincidence. When we got there, and he was stupid enough to land on it … Well, I knew then that he hadn't the slightest idea."

"Because he thought it was just stupid muggle superstition?" Moody asked.

"Precisely. Ironic, don't you think, that a man whose disregard for muggles made him into a living terror should in the end meet his downfall _because_ of his disregard for them?" the Professor asked, still chuckling a little as he placed his spectacles back on. "You should sleep, Alastor. We shall go to St Mungo's in the morning and get your leg seen to."

"Actually, Professor, I think I'd like to keep it the way it is."

Dumbledore looked surprised, but didn't question him as Moody expected he would. "Hmm, some wounds can come in useful. I understand. I have a scar just above my left knee of the London Underground, would you believe it?"

Albus Dumbledore stood up, and having straightened his robe, started walking towards the door.

"Professor, may I ask just one last thing?" Moody said before he could stop himself.

"Of course, Alastor, what is it?" Dumbledore asked, turning at the doorframe to face the Auror.

"Just before you fought Grindelwald… You said that the boy was too young to have been brought into it, and Grindelwald said that you couldn't blame him for your mistakes. You were talking about the boy that was there, weren't you? The one that managed to get away?"

Instantly, Dumbledore's face fell. He paused in the door frame for a few more moments, and then walked again to the edge of the bed. When he looked at Moody it was with the closest thing to fear and sadness that Alastor had ever seen in the Transfiguration teacher.

"Do you remember me telling you about a boy I taught up until last year? He received a Medal for Magical Merit for his part in … stopping … the monster which was unleashed on Hogwarts three years ago. He went on to become Prefect, then Head Boy. He disappeared about six months ago. Do you recall?"

Moody racked his memory; then it clicked. Dumbledore had told him about this boy – brilliant beyond belief was how he'd described him at the time, he remembered. "Ah, yes… you said you'd be keeping an eye on him after the Chamber of Secrets incident, didn't you? Do you suppose that was him?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore sighed, "His father and grandparents were found dead in their house in Little Hangleton three months ago, from the Killing Curse. His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

_The End…_

**AN: So there we have it. I wanted to explore two coincidences in this fic, both to do with a particular date. On the Dumbledore Wizarding Card that Harry got on his first trip to Hogwarts, it said that the Headmaster had been responsible for the 'defeat' of Grindelwald in 1945. Aside from the fact it didn't say 'killed' (which I've accounted for above), the date interested me. Firstly, and most obviously, because it coincided with Hitler's death and the fall of the Third Reich; it seemed to me unlikely that Rowling would time the death of a powerful Dark Wizard with such an event without trying to draw implications. I hope I have handled the subject with due sensitivity and attention to facts. ****Secondly, the date also interested me because, as I describe in the fic above, it was just one year after Tom Riddle's disappearance following his Hogwarts graduation that Grindelwald met his downfall. Rowling has said elsewhere in her books that once Tom left the school, he sunk deeply into the Dark Arts. It occurred to me that if this was true, an obvious place for him to have started would have been with Grindelwald. We have no way if J.K. timed the dates like this, or if it was mere coincidence, but her past habits seem to indicate that it's quite possible, likely even. Finally, the Chiding Stone is a real object, and it does really exist outside of Chiddingstone, Kent. It's also true that local 'muggles' believe it to have been, at various times a Saxon land boundary, a druidical altar, and a place where the villagers would confer their 'chiding' upon wrongdoers. I hope you enjoyed the fic.**


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